


What Darkness Most Fears

by UlisaBarbic



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Haunting, Protectiveness, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlisaBarbic/pseuds/UlisaBarbic
Summary: Originally written for the TMNT Darkest Night Fanbook. When Michelangelo's brothers don't come back from a simple pharmacy run for him while he's down with the flu, he sets out after them and saving them proves much more complicated than he could have imagined. Inspired by Old School Horror Games "Alone in the Dark" (the original!) and "Seventh Guest"





	1. Chapter 1

**What Darkness Most Fears  
**  
 ** _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is owned by Nickelodeon and used without permission for the strict entertainment of fans. This story was heavily influenced by the video games "Alone in the Dark" and "Seventh Guest" but the overall plot is mine._**  
  
 _Stories don't teach children that monsters are real. Children have always known monsters are real. Stories teach children that monsters can be killed.-Chesterton_  
  
 **Chapter One**  
  
Four hours.  
  
That was how much time he had left, by his reckoning. Though, it was hard to really keep track of time. He wasn't exactly going to trust the clocks that he saw throughout the house. Different times, all of them and the windows were too clouded over to judge by the moon. As for his shell cell, it had long since stopped working, probably the moment he stepped inside this house from hell, if he was going to be truthful. Hadn't bothered to check and he could have kicked himself for it. Woulda helped his internal clock.  
  
 _Eh, yeah right,_ he mused. His internal clock had been off for days. Being sick did that.  
  
Adrenaline may have been as prevalent in his blood as hemoglobin right now but that didn't make a virus disappear. Adrenaline only lasted so long and this thing…whatever it was…was clever. He had not encountered any threats on the way up here so his body switched off the adrenaline flow. The crash down was never fun and being sick made it ten times worse. This particularly stubborn virus has been ravaging his entire body for over two days. If Donnie were here right now, he would have been getting an earful for even getting out bed, let alone leaving home and venturing into a demon house. Leo would have been on his case about his senses already being blurred enough with illness and the fact that he had taken Zzzquil not even an hour ago and Raph would have made some kind of quip about him fighting as a drugged zombie.  
  
Every single one of them would have been completely accurate.  
  
Leaning against the wall, Michelangelo let out a low groan, wincing and trying to refocus. When he opened his eyes, his entire vision felt blurry and despite how he knew it wasn't, it sure as shell felt like the room was moving on its own. He had no time to be sick but the damn virus was not cooperating. Despite the need for him to be alert, to be sharp and to be quick on his feet, someone had neglected to tell his body that. Pushing against the wall to stand again felt like lead coated all his limbs and he had to close his eyes again once he was on his feet to give him brain time to comprehend he was not on an overpowered Tilt-A-Whirl.  
  
This was NOT what he wanted to be doing right now but he had lost the ability to choose as soon as he had seen the remains of Donatello's bo on the ground, one of Leo's sharpening stones that he was never without and the signs of a struggle, then the footprints…  
  
His brothers had been late coming back and when they hadn't answered their Shell Cells, Mikey could not lay there, not knowing, any more. Finding the Battle Shell had been pretty easy. They'd gone to get him medicine after all and the nearest pharmacy that had poor security was about ten minutes away. Had felt like ten hours but nevertheless…he'd spied the thing outside this super-creepy house.  
  
If they'd listened to the horror rules…he mused to himself. His brothers always laughed at him when he talked about movie rules but c'mon, you'd think they would have thought even a little bit about it when encountering a mansion that practically screamed "I'm haunted, I'm haunted!" _C'mon bros, no entering abandoned creepy houses, no matter what…_  
  
Who was he kidding? Raph probably took off chasing some Purple Dragon gang member and whatever spirit was in this house decided to do the ol' swap-and-switch and Donnie and Leo followed to play damage control. Though, it was truly a mystery to him how this thing had managed to thwart all three of his elder brothers. Donnie was way too smart for simple tricks, Raph could bend steel just by looking at it and Leo put Bruce Lee to shame. So, what had this thing thrown at them that had resulted in them utterly vanishing?  
  
They weren't dead, he knew that. But…  
  
Clutching tightly at the small piece of Donnie's bo he had tucked into his belt, whimpering lightly, Mikey took a heavy breath, forcing down the nausea. "Okay, okay…focus, Mikey. Focus. Let's recap…" He really didn't know why he was bothering to talk to himself. Well, okay, maybe he did know. He could barely focus on where he was, let alone where he was trying to go. He knew he was on the second floor and up until this point, he had not felt anything that could constitute as "weird." Old creepy Victorian mansion with weird old furniture and way too much space but nothing that screamed monster or evil or demon.  
  
Well, aside from the initial greeting that he had encountered as he followed his siblings' tracks through the creepy, dying garden with broken down statues....

  
 _"C'mon guys! This is the opposite of a good idea!" Mikey's call into the cold night air went unanswered and he stopped in his steps, leaning against one of the few trees in the yard that still had leaves of some kind on it. It was unnerving. Obviously, this had been a garden at some point but it had been a long time since any form of life had grown here. Not even bugs or birds were around and when he had taken the first step off the driveway into the dead leaf coated ground, he could hear nothing from the street. He could see nothing from the street. He'd turned around, slowly, and a misty fog that had not been there before had completed obscured the Battle Shell from view and it had to be less than fifteen feet away.  
  
"…yeah, that's not creepy at all…" He murmured to himself. His nerves were already on edge and this flu was just making it worse. He could have been walking into an ambush and he probably would not have known it. Everything felt heavy and his mind was seriously foggy. If he had driven here, it would have definitely been considered under the influence with how much that Nyquil had gummed up his mind. Honestly, he wanted to run. He wanted to run back home, crawl into his bed and hide. He wanted to pretend that his siblings were just 'messing with me' and would come in at any time, Leo in his stern Mother-Hen voice demanding if he had been drinking water and why he was awake. He wanted to pretend that the shadows around him were NOT moving independently and he definitely didn't want to address the fact that the light in the attic was on in that mansion, despite the house obviously having been abandoned for quite some time.   
  
Taking another step forward, he stumbled and nearly hit the ground though he managed to catch himself on his hands. "Damn it…" His temples were throbbing, his veins pounded behind his eyes. Getting up felt like it was way too much work but he was not about to just sit on this muddy ground. The dead leaves crumbled and cracked under his hands as he pushed himself up again, diverting his sights for the large mansion in front of him. Obviously, something had drawn his brothers towards it and whatever it had been, it was enough that they'd trudged right through the mud, leaving their footprints and not bothering to cover their tracks.  
  
Not good.  
  
Taking another step towards the house, he paused. His ninja senses were screaming at him that he was walking into a trap, that his brothers had fallen for a similar trap. It was one of those annoying warnings though because regardless of if they had been caught this same way, he needed to find them! He was NOT leaving here without them. Especially if they were in this super-haunted-cursed-looking place. As he made his way forward again, squeezing his eyes shut (and no, brain, you are not allowed to sleep!) to force his mind to relax and steady, he yelped lightly when his toe hit something hard.  
  
Cursing under his breath, he rubbed the offended appendage and looked at what had startled a trained-almost-master-level-ninja—  
  
A stone.  
  
Man, that was embarrassing. Looking closer though, it wasn't a regular stone. Too regularly shaped for that. This one was a rectangle. Frowning, he brushed some of the mud and twigs away, revealing a name "Edward Pitchood" A grave. This wasn't just a garden. It was a personal grave yard. He was walking barefoot over a graveyard.  
  
"Gross, gross, gross!" Mikey leapt to the side, trying to get as far away from a creepy abandoned grave as possible. Unfortunately, that resulted in him stumbling into the nearby statue which caved as soon as his shell rocked into it. It clanked to the ground with a hideous cracking and shattering sound. No stone carving should have given away that easily but as he whirled around to investigate, the broken figure of a small girl seemed to scream, almost like the wind whipping through the broken plaster and marble was giving it voice. The broken pieces of stone uncovered the name of "Eleanor Pitchood."  
  
A jerk to the right sent his unsteady gait into overdrive and he collapsed onto the ground on his right side, mud painting his thigh and side and if he had not been so frightened and disgusted and unnerved, he would have welcomed the cold mud against his hot skin. Scrambling to stand again, he was suddenly and abruptly aware of dozens of statues around him. Broken, peeling paint, cracked and missing pieces that fell to the ground in white rain. Names worn away by time and cold unfeeling eyes that stared at him:  
  
Brian Pitchood  
  
Matine Pitchood  
  
Then, the gathering of three stone to the right—Janice Pregtz, James Pregtz, Jeremy Pregtz.  
  
Five more to the left—Edward Burden, Elaine Burden, Maxine Burden, Nancy Burden.  
  
Jerking away from the stones that seemed to close in, seemed to grow closer to him with each minute, Michelangelo ran, his feet pounded the wet and packed dirt. He could hear moans, screaming. Howls. No source though! Well, no source that he wanted to think of in any event. It was quite apparent that those stones and statues had NOT been as clear and evident less than five minutes ago. Things didn't just pop up out of the ground like that naturally. Even in his more-than-drugged state, he knew that.  
  
Ground gave way underneath and he was really stunned that his ninja reflexes still worked, with as lethargic and slow as he was. All the same, he wasn't about to argue it and dug his fingers deep into the wet mossy ground, pulling himself out of the new ditch that had suddenly formed beneath him. It was pretty deep, maybe six feet or so. Freshly dug but how had he missed it? This wasn't like the stone. Even as sick and weakened as he was, he would have seen a giant gaping hole! Pull, up and out..  
  
Flopping down into the mix of dead leaves, mud and collected rain, Mikey fought and lost against the nausea in his stomach, emptying what little he had in his stomach directly into the ground. It left him feeling even more light-headed, dizzy, and drained. Managing to flop onto his back, he took in a shuddering breath, cursing viruses, bacteria and all other methods through which people got sick with all his might. It took him maybe a minute, probably two before he finally sat up, made it to his hands and knees before realized that the new pit that had nearly had him breaking his neck was an empty grave.  
  
One of three.  
  
He felt sick, a deep cold sick that spread over all his body and centered in the gut of his heart. Maybe it was his love of horror movies, maybe it was the overall uneasy feeling this place gave him. Maybe it was his on-again-off-again ninja instincts. Maybe it was a combination of all of that! Whatever it was, he forced the sickness and tiredness out of his eyes and found the stones. A single stone at the north end of each empty pit. Small, polished and each one with a single name in the center:  
  
Leonardo  
  
Raphael  
  
Donatello  
  
Forcing himself to a stand, stumbling to his knees once, he stood back up, his eyes blazing. "Ah, shell no!" Adrenaline had finally taken its mission seriously and for a moment, those horrible flu-symptoms dissipated. He knew it was a temporary relief but he meant to make full use of it. Instinctively, he reached for his nunchucks and was delighted to realize that even in his half-drunken state of medication fog, he'd remembered to grab them. They swung a bit off balance though, given his lack of center. Still, there was some comfort in that familiar grip.   
  
Raising his head, he screeched into the night "Okay, Wise Guy! Where are my brothers?! And don't give me any crap about them being dead! It'd take a mini-army of you…whoever you are…to take them down! Where are they?!" Mikey was well known as the turtle that did not get angry very often but as the one to dread when it did happen. His muscles were tensed and despite not having his weapons, he was well versed enough to make his hands and feet lethal weapons. Falling back into the stance he knew from childhood, he screeched out again "Answer me!"  
  
He got an answer. Oddly enough, he had not been expecting one. Looking up, he found a shape lingering by the doorway. Man-like in shape but when it moved, it was like a mist, black and twisting. Backing up a bit, Michelangelo nearly went spiraling into the grave behind him but he kept his balance. He prayed for that blessed adrenaline to keep pumping and judging by the way he could hear his pulse in his ears, it seemed to be. The man walking towards him wasn't even walking. He was…well, you couldn't call it floating either. It was like watching fog gradually move from one place to the other.   
  
It stopped a few feet away from him.   
  
Definitely a male-like form…tall, but not as tall as Raphael. Slick, looked like Agent Bishop actually but pitch black. And not like the kind of black that you thought of in clothing and face but…solid black. Like he'd been torn out of a dark room's curtains and given three dimensional form. No face. Just simple, flat, emptiness.   
  
"Your brothers are inside my home."   
  
Okay, seriously creepy voice. Heavy sounding and deep, rumbling. It was the tempo of it though. It seemed to quake and quiver, going from monotone to depressed to manic and everything in between all wrapped in one simple sentence. Not quite robotic but devoid of any emotional connection. Mikey knew he'd never forget that voice as long as he lived and he just knew it would be haunting his dreams for quite some time. He was actually grateful this thing didn't have a face because if the voice was like this, he didn't need to see the psychopathic eyes.  
  
In fact, he was pretty sure that despite pushing as much sarcasm into his throat as he could, that he was probably trembling when he spoke.  
  
"If you wish to free them, I am willing to play that game with you." With wisp of hand and mist, a black representation of a hand extended towards him. "It is rare I get to play games anymore."  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Mikey wet his lips and tried to steel his voice though he was certain it quivered. "Let me guess, I only have so much time before the deal is null and void, right, creepy dude?"   
  
"Sunrise," the entity responded. "Or I keep you as well."   
  
"Duh," Michelangelo remarked "I've seen this movie…." He backed away from the creature and inquired "So they're inside your mansion somewhere, right?"His attempts to shrug off the ultimatum probably were not fooling anyone but he was trying. Wasn't that the first rules of any battle? The second the enemy knew you were afraid, you'd lost? He was fairly certain that he had heard that somewhere. He hoped it wasn't a requirement though because anyone with a half a set of smarts could have seen the fear on his face. "You promise they're alive in your mansion?"  
  
No answer but those large oak doors opened and the figure was gone. All he could see was the fine rugs and wood paneled walls within the open doors. Nothing else. No signs of battle, no signs of struggle, no threats. There was nothing that indicated something waiting for him, nothing that indicated a trap. Just…simple monotonous every day existence. It looked like no one had set foot in the place for years if he was to be perfectly frank. For the first time, he found himself wishing for some signs of a struggle, some signs of just ….something.  
  
There was nothing.   
  
Heavy breath in, the turtle rubbed one of Leo's sharpening stones, asking unconsciously for some aid before Michelangelo followed the small pathway, up the not-creaking-like-death-stairs and into the entryway.  
  
The doors slammed shut behind him.  
_  
  
"Damn it…" Mikey groaned and took a step forward. The ground creaked and swayed under his weight and from age (though maybe it was just his entire body tilting ridiculously) and he looked down the empty hallway. Bare walls, no pictures and peeling paint. Blank square places of discolored wall where pictures or portraits had no doubt once hung and had been weathered by time. No windows, save the one broken on in the twisting stairwell leading up the attic. He knew that the stupid light he had seen from the yard had been an enticement. He knew horror stories and while he had never wanted to play a part in one, he obviously was. The…whatever it was…that had taken his brothers was playing a game. Games meant clues. A light, a single light, in a house otherwise shrouded in darkness practically screamed 'look at me, look at me!'  
  
So, was it so bad that he was not looking forward to going up those narrow stairs? Why were attic stairs and basement stairs so creepy? It started in the corner of the storage room currently lingering in front of him and was partially blocked by empty cans of paint. Broken shards of glass decorated the way up, but not as much as you would have expected. Something hadn't been trying to break in, something had been trying to break OUT. The wood and paint by the small window were torn in small, tiny little slivers. Like…fingernails.  
  
Yeah, this was not helping his courage or his confidence.  
  
When he took his first step upward, there was a huge gust of wind and the door that had led him from the second story into the storage room slammed shut. What little light had been in the hallway was shut out and he was blind in the dark. Taking a breath to still his racing heart, the turtle stretched out reluctant fingers and found the wall. It seemed to pulse under his fingertips, as if the house itself was screaming. Another step up allowed some of the faint light from outside to slip in through the small broken window and all he could see from it was dead rats on the stairwell. All of them plump and fat though. Twisted into horrible contortions. They had not died easily. Not poison though. If he didn't know animals as well as he did, he probably wouldn't have noticed. But he was the resident Doctor Doolittle. That look, even on animal faces, meant one thing—utter and complete terror.  
  
Scared to death.  
  
"That's encouraging." He whimpered lightly under his breath, leaning against the wall. He subconsciously looked behind him. His brothers were never far away when they were on a mission and for a moment, just a moment; he forgot that he was on this one alone. God, it felt so silent. He never noticed before how loud the simple calling of insults, ideas and commands were. How soothing the sound of his siblings' baited breath was, the faintness of their heartbeats, the smell of their scent. He had grown so used to them and now that he didn't have those, didn't have the unspoken presence of his siblings by his side…the silence was deafening.  
  
Step up again, one at a time until the half broken door hanging off its hinges swung inward and he entered the attic. Naturally, the door made a horrific scrapping noise and tore across the old, broken flooring with no resistance. Wood that was not strong enough simply flaked off in pieces. He was surprised the whole thing didn't just crumble into dust. Even Donatello, who was well known for being a miracle worker with anything broken or old, would have called it a loss and used it for scraps. He was almost glad for it because if it decided to do that creepy slamming shut thing, at least he could break through this door, even on his limited energy.  
  
Shifting his eyes into the main area, Mikey took in the atmosphere. After all, there was supposed to be a clue of some kind of here. Lights always meant SOMETHING in these stories and if he was going to make it out alive and find his brothers, he needed to be thinking. Much as his siblings and even his father to some degree, teased him about that, he was smart. Just not in the same ways. Maybe his unorthodox interests would come in handy for once? Shaking his head, he instantly regretted it and winced, holding his forehead. _Okay, okay, Mikey,_ he coached himself. _What do you have to work with?_  
  
Open, wide with old furniture and tables and boxes scattered everywhere. At least in the front. Near the back, where the walls tightened into a wide hallway, he saw a single light, blue-ish in tint, sitting on a table. It was the only light in this whole place and the faint light from a few other windows was darkened. Storms were gathered outside, despite it being almost crystal clear when he had headed over here. That was always an ominous sign. There was a reason all the movies and books used storms. Cliché yes but it blocked out the light stars and the moon provided.  
  
Was not helping his nerves right now.  
  
 _Deep breath, Mikey._ He coached himself. Stepping forward slowly, he tried to constantly look around but if he moved too much to one side or the other, he was likely to lose his balance and fall over. This was a clue hunting mission though he was not stupid enough to think it would be without danger. He kept his nunchucks clutched tightly in each hand, tighter than he normally would, letting them sway only ever so slightly. He could see a small curling staircase beyond this little hallway, apparently a second exit from the attic. Illuminated by the same blue light that seemed much too bright for the source provided.  
  
Mikey stopped when he reached the apex of the hallway, where the wide open attic was left behind him. Now, he was faced with a simple hallway, long and narrow with a simple wooden table, mimicking the corridor in length upon which a single candle flickered in a non-existent wind. One each side of the hallway, were portraits.  
  
Large, fancy portraits, looking to be the items missing from the second story. How many he didn't know. Lots. Dozens. Dozens upon dozens. Rows of them. Men, women and even some children. They looked like professionally done paintings, with very precise brush strokes and exact shadows. That wasn't exactly odd, aside from the sheer number of them, but what was really getting to him was the content. Close-ups of faces but that definitely wasn't what was making his blood stall in his veins. It was the expressions.  
  
A woman with her eyes huge, face white and lips pale blue, clutching at something at her throat that she couldn't get off. Underneath, written in red in the golden frame was 'Matine Pitchood.'  
  
A man with a broken look to his entire physique, huddled into a tight ball, tears running down his face in rapid rivers. The name 'Edward Burden.'  
  
A little girl openly crying, blood dripping from a huge gash in her head. 'Nancy Burden.' Maybe seven years old.  
  
A teenaged boy, his eyes emptying with his head turned at a horrible angle. 'Jeremy Pregtz.'  
  
An older couple, maybe their eighties, pierced together with something, blood coming from all orifices. 'Eleanor and Brian Pitchood.'  
  
Sick to his stomach, Michelangelo's pace quickened:  
  
'Janice Pregtz.' 'Elaine Burden.' 'Horus Mitchell.' 'Samantha Overan' 'Lauren Jessken' 'Mercedes Law' 'Pollyanna Frances' 'Kimberly Law' 'Neina Mitchell.'  
  
Name after name….  
  
Murdered and dying face, one after the other. Constantly. Ten, twenty, thirty…  
  
All locked in a permanent state of panic.  
  
Until he reached the end of the sick gallery, panting, taking a moment to lean on the table. It was trying to unnerve him. That much was apparent. That was obvious as shell. Was doing a damn good job of it! Deep breaths, focus. Feel the ground under your feet, the atmosphere on your skin, the breath in your lungs. Focus on that and ground yourself. It was a basic meditation technique but then he had never been good at it. When he tried to close his eyes and focus on what his senses were taking in, the only thing he could feel was the cold sweat, the throbbing pain of his head and the utter misery in his entire body that manifested itself with faint shakes and quivers of the muscles.  
  
Finally standing upright again, his eyes were drawn to the flat wall right by a simple closed wooden door. Golden frames, same as the others but not polished. Backgrounds and pieces of pigments decorating the canvas that had not yet been refined. Names that had not yet been carved into the base. Eyes wide, a sick feeling starting in his gut, he rushed over, planting his hands onto the dusty coated wall, as he took in the colors—green, little bits of brown, red, purple and blue. Oval like shapes and red and blacks and blues all over the green.  
  
"Oh, God….bros…"  
  
They shifted. The painting moved. It moved!  
  
No eyes, just simple blurs of color. Shifted, lifted and if there had been faces, he would have been staring at them.  
  
"Mikey…"  
  
God, Leo's voice. He wasn't supposed to sound so defeated, so lost, so broken. That wasn't his strong big brother! Leonardo could handle anything you threw his way, absolutely anything! That wasn't what he heard now. He heard pain, pain-ridden words and that scared him to death. If there was one of his brothers that made it an effort to never, ever reveal his real level of discomfort, it was Leonardo. Even though there were no eyes, no warmth from that portrait, the deep sadness and regret in the way he said his name…that was enough. Mikey felt tears prickle in his own eyes. He laid a hand on the portrait, as if that would bring him closer to his siblings. As if that would tell him where they were.  
  
"L-Leo…Raph…Do-donnie, you're okay. I'm coming, bros, I promise. I promise." He didn't make promises lightly; none of them did. Growing up with Master Splinter, he had made it very apparent that promises were a vow on your honor and if you made one, you better be prepared to follow through with it! Mikey meant it though; he meant it more than he had meant anything else before in his life. His brothers, he had to get to them. He had to get to them now! Now, right now, he had to!  
  
"Mikey…" Raph that time, sounding every bit as strained and weakened as Leonardo had. "Stupid…knucklehead…"  
  
Only Raphael had the ability to take the word 'stupid' and make it affectionate. It was though. It was a specific vocal tone that you only learned how to read if you had been living with him your entire life. He rarely heard that tone though...that pleading tone, that tone that screamed for him to run away and leave them. The tone that Michelangelo could not obey and would not obey.  
  
"Behind…you…" Donnie's words were strained, constricted but full of authority as only Donnie could make something. If he'd had eyes, they would have been boring a hole through his chest. So much desperation in that plea, that warning…  
  
Whirling around so fast sent a shockwave of pain through his entire body, starting with his temples and jolting through every single nerve. For a moment, he thought for certain that he was going to pass out. He fought it, screamed at his watery eyes that there was no time to be sick, no time to be out of focus. Threat, there was a threat. Ninja reflexes, I really need you to work right now! Work, work, muscles, c'mon tense, get ready, I know you can, c'mon, please! All this pleading and begging took place in less than a tenth of a second and it really had no consequence.  
  
White faced, black haired, with a neck that was bent at an angle was not physically possible, that horrible death rattle that sprung from her throat. Flesh that peeled off in sheets, eyes that were sunken back into the skull and were little more than pure black sockets that sucked the life out of you. But that rattle, that screech, that wail and howl was more frightening than anything he could give a name to. He caught a glimpse of her, of her nails broken and rotting as she sprung and they both hit the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

No word for it. No word for that sound. The movies and books and comics did not do it justice. The rattling deep in the throat from a windpipe that had been utterly crushed. This horrible reddish black…stuff (Donnie would have known what it was but Mikey was completely content being ignorant about that) poured out of her mouth and she had these rotting teeth, half gone, some broken in half leaving behind cracked little spears of enamel and some hanging on by rotting flesh.

The no eyes though…just empty sockets that seemed to shimmer with a black light. There was something completely soul-wrenching frightening about something that possessed nothing behind their eyes. No feeling. Nothing. Just emptiness and something that he couldn't even call emotion. Dark, very dark feeling, if one could describe something like that. Her being so close, pinning him down, caused a gut-eating sorrow, anger and loss to come over him all at once. It wasn't natural and that was all he knew.

"Gettoff!" He slurred at her, trying to sound as fierce as possible but quite frankly, not succeeding. His voice came out broken, high pitched and worn. His throat was tired from screaming earlier in the grave yard (had not been his best move) and from the fact he had been able to keep next-to-nothing down the last few days. That wasn't exactly having Olympic-level effects on his strength or speed either. Before his brothers had gone out to get him some more nausea medication—God, why hadn't he just dealt with it?!—he had been throwing up nearly consistently for two days. He'd managed to keep down about a small bowl's worth of broth and maybe a Jello cup or two but nothing beyond that. Well, that and lots and lots of juice and water.

That did not translate well into strength.

His muscles were tensed with adrenaline, luckily, but she was giving him a lot more trouble than she normally would have been able to. His hands had grasped her around the forearms and he groaned and nearly threw up when the skin he was clinging to tightly tore like paper and fell to the ground in white, pasty mess. That awful black stuff started to stain his hands and he managed to get his knee up and kick her as far from him as he could manage. She landed on the ground hard, with a horrible crunching sound, like you had dropped a whole crate of eggs.

"No…I beg you…"

Yelping out loud, Michelangelo whirled his head around and screamed with full passion as the portrait closest to him, of a woman with skin torn off her face in strips suddenly began to move. Her voice was empty, lacking life and yet she begged. Scrambling to his feet, the portrait on the other side of the room also cried to life, screeching out "God take me, God take me!" from a man who looked like a knife had been plunged into his neck. His voice was a horrible, gurgly sound. You never forgot the sound of a throat choked on blood; he'd heard it often enough.

One by one, every single painting began to howl and scream. Cries of mercy. Pleading to 'finish it' Screams of being unafraid.

The kids…those were the worst. Crying, pleading for their parents. One that Mikey saw just out of the corner of his eye was a little girl, maybe four, falling through a broken window towards the stone patio below and she was howling, screeching as hard as she could "Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy!"

He could hear the sickening smash and crunch when she hit bottom.

"RAAASH!"

He barely managed to catch the…thing's hands before she dug them into his neck, managing to make it to his feet and shifting his weight trying to throw her off balance. It worked fairly well actually and well timed push and she hit the wall hard, with a sick crunch as her chest gave way and caved in, what once had been organs starting to ooze out of the tears in her flesh like too much toothpaste in a tube. It literally slurped out and clumped on the floor. She ran like an animal, on all fours, leaving behind her broken nails in the floor.

"Ah, shell no!" Mikey cried again and dove to the side, going in a roll, nearly falling when he came to a stop. His adrenaline was keeping him more alert than he should have been but lack of nourishment meant he couldn't keep this up for long. His endurance was shot.

"Okay, ghoul, ghoul…" he dodged another swipe from her and cursed when some of her nails connected that time, tearing a nice few slashes into his left arm. Whirling around, he punched, hard and then screeched as her body gave way with blood and flesh and muscle and consumed his fist, coating it in the black innards. She took advantage of it and clawed at his face, spitting mucus and broken teeth at him as she did. She was aiming for his eyes but he clutched her tightly with his other arm and threw her, "Gross, gross, gross!" He shook of his hand, his mind racing over potential ideas. Ghouls were kind of like zombies, except for their origins. Supernatural vs weird-science-babble. So bye-bye head, bye bye ghoul, right?

Slamming his weight into the table, the right leg gave way and he grabbed it like a club. _Channel your inner Casey Jones,_ he coached himself. Wasn't often he did that but in this case, the human vigilante's style was what he needed. When she scrambled for him again, he swung hard, letting the wooden club hit hard into her skull which popped like an overripe melon. He slumped and threw up as it coated his face and the smell…a horrible putrid scent rushed his senses. He barely had time to gather his wits again before he realized the twitching body to his right had not stopped moving.

"Ah shi—"

He dodged, screaming this time as he realized that even with no head, she was moving. She was still chasing him and she didn't have a head! That was NOT right!

Okay, okay, so if that doesn't work then what? He was panicking and he knew it but panicking never helped anyone, did it? Jumping over the table, the candle that was giving the room light tumbled to the ground and he snatched it up but not before the flame went out. Oh, if that didn't light a fire under that creepy thing. He practically saw a non-existent grin.

Pure dark. He could hear and smell and touch but he could not see. He heard the screeching, he heard the movement on the ground, rushing, scurrying. The dark was their playground. The horrible screeching and scrambling that made his blood run cold. He felt his feet hit the broken table and despite how childish it might had been, he climbed upon the fallen wood, as if that would protect him from the thing scurrying after him. His ears perked and searched. First to his right, then to his left. She was approaching from both sides.

_Wait? What?_

How could…

Sharp, piercing pain in his right ankle answered that question. Jerking, hard, he felt what was probably half of a jaw give way, taking about an inch or two of flesh and muscle with it. He carrened off his perch, landing rather loudly against the wall. His head fell against something still fairly wet but not blood or that…whatever that black stuff was. Paint. It was that fresh paint from…

A sharp prickling pain hit his wrist and without thinking about it, he grabbed it just as there was a flash of lightning from outside and he saw his nemesis, springing for him. Beyond her though, literally made of the shadows of the room, was that man. That darkly dressed man. Still no face to him but when he held his hand up, the entire room went dark and cold as ice.

Then the floor gave way.

Screaming out loud, Mikey found himself looking upward as something wet, slimy and red slipped out and wrapped around his neck. Hard, tight. Air! Eyes widening in both panic and horror, he could see that man again. Just, floating there, the limp body of that ghoul girl on his arm like she was some kind of sick puppet.

That's where this red rope was coming from.

Shifting his eyes for a dreaded closer look, he saw veins, fatty deposits, blood. _Oh, God_ …it was her intestines. He was using her innards as a weapon! The sick bastard was…

He felt it in his gut before he really saw the motion, before the man began to move to jerk his hand to a stop. Before he saw how close the first floor was rushing up to greet him and how that sick organic noose tightened on his neck. Moving on more instinct that anything else, at nearly the same time as the man jerked up, Michelangelo ripped the sharp thing he had pocketed in the attic and swiped fiercely. He didn't bother to look at what it was. It had sharp edges and that was all he needed and cared about right now.

The flesh tore and he was released from the death jerk.

Muscle memory chimed in. Arm tucked, shoulder down and roll as ground met skin. Sharp popping pain cut through his arm even as he went into a series of tumbles, wearing out the momentum from the fall. It made him grit his teeth but even as he came to a stop, he whimpered to himself "Learn to Fall, Ninjutsu 101." His head was pounding again and he felt that sickening feeling as your body overloaded on adrenaline. He grabbed his gut and tried to keep down what little he still had in his stomach. He had lost it once in the attic and he couldn't afford to be any weaker.

Rubbing his aching neck, he finally turned and looked at the weapon that had saved him from becoming a cheap Halloween decoration.

Tears filled his eyes a moment.

Clutched tightly in his hand was one of Raphael's sais. The wooden handle had broken nearly in half and it was painted on the edges with blood. Of course, when he'd been pushed against the wall, he had smelled fresh paint. He'd been by that portrait in making of his brothers…tightening his grip, he bowed his head a moment, just letting the nerves, the fear, the realization of almost-death wash away. Maybe it was stupid but he swore he could feel some of Raphael's sadistic but comforting strength in that small weapon. It was so deeply needed now; he drank it in like water.

Perhaps it was silly but he couldn't stand to see it broken like that. Reaching into his belt, he took out Donatello's broken bo, removing the leather wrap from it and tightly wound it around the cracked handle until it held firm. A quick swipe from Leo's sharpening stone on each edge of the blade added some cutting edge back to the metal. It was a silly need most people would roll their eyes at but for Michelangelo, with his brothers seemingly so far from him, it was a small comfort and it washed a faint sense of support over his heart.

Making his way to knees that shook with exhaustion, he narrowed his eyes and looked upward. All that remained of his fall was a large hole in the high ceiling and a limp half broken body dangling like a sickening tapestry. His heart pounded in his chest like a trapped animal. Looking around, he considered his options. He still had to find his siblings. Obviously, it wasn't in the attic.

"Okay," he murmured to himself, caressing the sai a moment, silently thanking and asking his brothers for strength in the same voiceless motion. "Let's play Professor Donnie." If he needed to find his brothers, then he needed to know why and how this super-creepy mansion worked. _How did you decide what made someone tick? You had to know about them to do that, right? Okay,_ he said to himself again, _if I wanna learn about someone, where do I look?_ He was the family therapist generally, all things considered, so that was actually the first easy decision all night. Eyes darting about, he finally settled on a small side corridor. Creeping down it, he passed a broken down bathroom, a study filled with smoke and no source, curling in a permanent circle ( _super-weird_ ), and what had probably been a library at one point before an army of worms invaded. Tucked away in the back though, far away from anything was a small door. Pressing gently against it, as if afraid of alerting the man to his presence, he opened to a room full of darkness.

Looking into his belt, he removed the small candle he'd tucked into his belt from the attic. Digging in his pockets of his belt a moment, he finally grasped a small lighter. He had pieces of flint and steel but they all usually carried matches and lighters too. If you could avoid using flint and steel, the better. It took longer and right now, he had no time. After a moment, the candle took light with an eerie blue tint. Definitely a weird color and yet, it didn't bug him as much. There was a calmness to this piece and if his stories had taught him anything, if something gave off a color that wasn't red or black, hang onto it.

In any event, now he could see!

It was a bedroom. "Best way to know someone is to see where they hang." He said softly to himself as he stepped inside. He closed the door himself, if only to keep it from doing that super-freaky slamming shut trick. A simple bed, nightstand, closet with empty hangers and a dresser covered in forgotten coins, wallet, papers and little knick-knacks. Looked like it hadn't been used in a long time. Lots of dust and the air smelled and tasted stale. His shoulder where he'd landed ached immensely but he lifted the light a little more and almost out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Above him.

"Oh boy…"

Papers, notes, drawings, completely coating the ceiling, even over what had once been an overhead light. Some of them being in cursive, some of them in print, some chicken scratch. All different types of writing and over all of them were symbols. One looked a little like an egg shape on its side and one standing upright. Another was a star inside a circle, yet another was a triple moon. Then others that he just plain did not understand in the least nor recognize. However, what else made him tremble was that there was a drawing of that dark man. Everywhere. It coated these papers and notes. On the one hand, it seemed he had found his clue but on the other, he was loathe to see what he'd found.

Pain started in his neck, shoulder and head again. Dizziness followed. Leaning against the wall, he fought the small quivers that rippled through his body as the fever he had been keeping at bay decided to rear its ugly head again. "Not now. Be sick later." He cursed at himself. No time now.

In a move that he was sure would have gotten him yelled at had it been anyone else's home, he stood up on the bed, took a moment to get him balance (embarrassingly falling once as his head decided it was feeling rather heavy) and then lifted his candle, peering over page after page. Some were hard to read and some weren't. It looked to be not from one person but from many people. He caught a date as early as 1705 and as recent as 1930. Recognized the names though…Burden and Pitchood. The names that he had seen on the portraits, on the gravestones.

Stretching up, he pulled the nearest piece down and examined it though he still didn't sit. He was not going to let his guard down that much:

_The man in black haunts my dreams. Father states that I have merely been influenced by the boys whom run about in the woods or influenced by tales from the Natives but I know better. I know he is there. He comes each night. He walks with me. He speaks to me, with a voice full of ice and mania. He has only demands. He claims that we owe him any and all that we have, despite never speaking his name. He will not tell me his name. He only says of himself that 'I am Master' and that is all I need to know._

The next entry he pulled from above.

_He has successfully stopped my sleep. I cannot rest, I cannot pretend to rest. Mother and Father fear I am bewitched. They have sent for a priest and while I pray and hope for relief, I fear there will be none. The man in black does not linger. He vanished during the day but waits in that section of reality where dreams begin. Perhaps he will finally tell me what he wishes of me? If I could know, if I am able, I will gladly give it if only to get him to release me from this living Hell. My family suffers more each day. I have stumbled upon old drawings and totems that Father has always stated will bring safety. Perhaps they will bring some relief. I pray it is so._

The next one, this one seeming to be later on, decades later.

_They say that Grandmother saw the dark man too. I used to think that wasn't real, that it was stupid family stories to keep us out of the basement and out of the garden. Nothing stupid about them though. He's real. I see him every day though I doubt anyone else does. They just say it's foolishness and my imagination is too vivid. It isn't that. Why would I even want to dream up someone like that? Someone that looks at you like you're a piece of meat? No, he's real and he's been here a while. I don't know how long. Too long. He smells like blood._

Another.

_My brother sees him too. He told me today. We don't know what to do. Grandmother used to see him and apparently Uncle too but they're all gone. They babbled about it until their last breath but no one can tell us what their last breath was. Or from what. It wasn't natural, that's for sure. They went crazy, bit by bit. Uncle used to be a marathon runner and the day before he died, he couldn't even get out of bed. No. That's not natural. Not for someone only fifty-something. There's something else…Mother is terrified of the blocked off corner of the library. Maybe that's where we might get some answers._

Another entry, this one from another writer

_My brother's dead. He died this morning. In the attic, covered in blood they found him. No explanation and the whole family seems to tremble if I ask about it. So I search instead. My brother's body isn't even cold yet but I have to know. The way the library was blocked and barricaded, there has to be something in there. I started to look today and already I feel something. I'm not sure what. Can't really say I'd have a word for it anyway. Let's just say that there's a search to be done and I'm not stopping._

Another, this one with drawing of the man all over it.

_All gibberish, the notes in the library. I know they're talking about the Dark Man though. I've found myself talking like mad some times. I just sit some days in the day room or on the patio outside and just rock, back and forth. It never seems to help but for some reason it's comforting. Mom said I used to rock to soothe myself as a child. Is that what he is reducing me to? A child that is helpless? I'm not an idiot. My family members have died, one by one and I'm not about to be any exception. I wish I could feel as safe as I did as a child._

He yanked another down. This one looked like it had been written by one of the elders in the family. It sounded perhaps like it was the Grandmother that had been referenced. It was a bit hard to tell but that was his best guess.

_I have not yet given in. The Dark Man walks with shadows but he flees from fire. He curses and withdraws. It is a small comfort. So, I sit, sweat pouring off my face by the fireplace. He does not touch me there. I can only do so for so long as eventually the flames will die and he returns. Each time I have kept him at bay with the fire, he returns more livid and dark than ever. I have no peace now, except when the flames are roaring. I do not know how much longer I can stand it. He has never stated what he wants, only that he will "take what he will." My nights are the most frightening. I hide as a child does._

Another, this one a bit longer.

_Great-Grandfather used to speak of protection totems. I have attempted so many. I'm sure my family is horrified by all the different symbols I have carved and painted and sketched. I keep hoping that I will find the right one. Oh, he laughs at me for it. He states that protection is only given 'personally.' I don't know the meaning of that but I must keep trying. I carry a child in my belly now. It is not the blessing that my family celebrates. How can I birth a child into a world where evil lurks in my own home? Where I am helpless to drive it out? Where even priests don't feel its presence? God forgive me as I pray Him to take the child back._

Another, written in horrible chicken scratch. This one looked to be from not that long ago.

_My little girl is gone. Vanished, whisked away by whatever devil haunts this house. My wife does not understand. She states that I have lost my mind, that I am drawing connections where there are none. How could that be when the connections are right here, staring me in the face? The notes and stories of my ancestors have all rung true. Something lurks here, though I don't know where. He is sometimes in the attic, sometimes the bedroom, sometimes the old storage mills under the house and sometimes…he is here now. Oh, he is. He isn't talking but I know he's here. He's laughing at me, I'm sure. Waiting for the right moment to tell me how I will suffer next. To tell me that my wife is next. I can't and won't take this torture anymore. The symbols from my grandparents have never held power over this thing. He emerges right above them, as if to spite us. The passage in the attic, the passage in the bedroom, in the library. It doesn't matter. He always finds a way._

_My wife said she would be back from the garden soon. So, I'll act now. All I know is that this creature flees from fire. I found an old candle in the attic, from our first ancestor here, before there were even oil lamps used readily. It's old but with a new wick, it burns brilliantly. I'll end this, tonight. In the study, where he rarely comes. A simple fire and I'll wait. If the fire destroys the house, all the better. If not, at least let it end my life. Sorry, my love Kaila, but I hope, one day that you'll understand and you'll not have to follow me._

Wind blew. Non-existent wind blew, wiping around the bedsheets, the curtains. The door, despite being shut and locked, flew open and slammed loudly into the wall. Plaster and paint chipped away and tumbled to the ground. The notes and papers above his head scattered into the air, falling and twisting into every possible direction. It was like being in the middle of a rainstorm without the rain. He could hear windows outside this small room shatter and break and that horrible gurgly noise from that ghoul like creature was back.

Good. He was close.

As frightening as this was, as scared as he was, as hard as his heart throbbed and his breath caught, if this…thing was starting to show his muscles so to speak then he was close. Being close meant he had a chance. He didn't know how much time had passed but his brothers didn't have a lot of it. He didn't trust that this thing couldn't manipulate time. This room was a key point. That study where he'd seen all that smoke. That had to have been where that man who had written the last entry had died. His instincts about learning about others were spot on, again. _Point to Michelangelo._

Jumping off the bed, he looked around the room and then he noticed it. A simple carving in the tile floor. Under the bed. His mind drifted to those entries. There were references all over the place about being safe like a child and this sick bastard rubbing in their faces that they weren't safe anywhere, even with their little symbols and totems. He'd heard of protection totems but it seemed none of these had worked and oh, this sicko had relished in that. Frowning, Mikey pushed the bed aside, embarrassed by how much strength it took and found one of those weird symbols carved into the floor. Okay, so under the bed was like a child, definitely. As was…

The closet.

Lifting his eyes, he eyed the small closed door on the other side of the room. He crossed slowly, trying to tell his sweat glands to turn off and for his stomach to settle. He didn't have time to waste on fear or sickness. His brothers didn't have a lot of time left. He didn't know how much time had elapsed but it had been enough. He needed to find them and they needed to get the shell out of here. So, logically…there he was, channeling Donnie….if this thing was as twisted as he sounded, he'd naturally go where someone felt safe, like the bed or the closet. That's why the girl had carved the symbol into the ground. And a closet was closed-in, confined. The perfect place to ambush someone, the perfect spot to make someone's last stand, their final stand.

"Well," he eyed his belt and wrapped a hand around his brother's sai "I don't care how scary or powerful you are, Bud. I want my brothers back." Taking a deep breath, he opened the closet, not sure what he'd find.

Old shoes, abandoned dresses, hangers. Dust. Clawed marks on the ground. Like he had seen going up to the attic. It looked like someone had been fighting, trying to claw their way away from something. Fighting with literally every ounce of strength they had before finally succumbing and giving in. He could see more rapid cuts and marks near the center and what looked like old blood stains. This had been someone's final spot, alright. Someone had fought, and lost, their life here.

It was simple. An old, simple door. Like in the old books and movies. A trapdoor. Like the kind with ladders that led to a basement floor or something. He recalled the journals had mentioned a basement and an old storage room beneath the house. That would make sense. A way down that was one-way and you had little room, if any to defend yourself. A simple last ride for the last victim. It also made sense to make that…this place where the creature would have the most strength, the gateway to where his family was. He hated the thought, trembled with fear and fever as he stared at the little entry.

"Bingo." With more courage than he thought he had, he knelt, grasped the old rusted handle and pulled. "You hear me, you bastard? I want my brothers back!"

The air in front of him turned wispy, cold and dark. His breath when he pulled in felt like little ice pieces were stabbing all over his lungs. His deprived muscles were already weakened and now they felt like jelly. His eyes drooped, for a moment but then the coldness in front of him, took form. It was slow, gradual. A gathering of air here, a sweeping of dust there, the movement of everything around him until less than three inches in front of him, was the Dark Man.

Except now he had a face.

Cold and solid white, wrinkled like it was attacked by time and water and no eyes. Like the ghoul. Except deep in the pits of those empty sockets was dark black light. Darkness like an abyss, a cold, unfeeling abyss that seeped into the soul and made you feel completely vulnerable. Like nothing you did would matter and nothing you tried would make any difference.'

Then it spoke, the candle of Michelangelo's light going out with a puff.

"Then come get them."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

He was scared.

No, strike that, terrified!

All the same, he glanced down the small narrow passage and taking a deep inhale, he jumped. Maybe it was foolhardy but he figured that with as dark as it was, he couldn't exactly see anyway. So, it was better to just jump ahead and get where he was going as quickly as he could. It wasn't too long a fall, all things considered, and he bent his knees to absorb the pressure. When feet met earth, he stumbled a bit, ended up falling against the wall. It didn't feel like stone or wood. It was flexible, squishy. It felt almost like a sponge.

It reeked of death down here.

"Not my favorite game," he mused to himself, taking a step forward. He was walking lopsided and he knew it. Stopping every few feet, he had to close his eyes and center his mass. Aches and pains were running rampant through his body, in blood and flesh. His eyes, while more adjusted to seeing in the dark than most humans, were still not what you wanted for a pitch black journey.

That's what it was—pitch black. No light. None. In the house above, there had been some light, though faint from the broken windows, from the stars and moon outside. Down here, there was nothing. He walked but as he did, he ran his fingers along the wall. It was a passageway. It felt open but not too open. His ears were ready, chimed to pick up any sound. He would have welcomed any. Anything at all. There was nothing. Nothing aside from the trembling of his muscles and chattering of his teeth. It could have been nerves. It could have been his fever.

He decided that he really didn't want to know.

Time was something he needed to know and he didn't. He knew that he was walking and he was running into dead ends, turning and taking another path. It was like someone had plopped him in the middle of a rat maze. His heart pounded so loud he was sure it was giving away his position. He was close. By how much it smelled like blood and rot here, this had to be where so many people had met their end. He had seen in the attic, those paintings. This thing had no shortage of interesting ways to kill someone. The journals seemed to indicate he had a sick sadistic streak for insanity.

Fine.

Michelangelo's grip on his nunchucks in one hand tightened and he fumbled in his belt for that candle and a lighter when suddenly, right in front of him, there was light. Glorious light. Made him wince and back up but there was light. Red light but light! He wasn't about to be picky! Not enough to see the walls or really where he was but it gave him something to focus on and it looked like the corridor finally opened up just ahead…

"Michelangelo!"

Freezing in his tracks, the teenager blinked once then twice "M-Master Splinter?"

Sure enough, his father stood right in front of him, less than three feet. All of Michelangelo's instincts cried out for that solid figure, that comforting presence that had been there since he was a child. Yet, his mind paused, made him stall. Master Splinter hadn't even been at home. He had been visiting the Daimyo and they didn't exactly have an easy way to get in contact with him. Even taking into account all the mumbo gumbo spiritual stuff Master Splinter claimed to have, he shouldn't have been here…should he?

"Yes, my son." The tone from the rat was dark, cold. "I have come to bring you home."

Straightening up, Michelangelo inquired "What? But the others…"

"Are dead." Came the slow, heart wrenching reply. "They have been dead for at least an hour."

Fear, horror and doubt drowned Michelangelo's mind and spirit, all at once. "Wh..what? No, no they aren't. That isn't how this thing works, Sensei…"

"They are!" Splinter hissed, his voice breaking, despite an obvious attempt to control it. "I have seen it with my own eyes! You did not reach them in time!"

"In time…" Mikey felt a bit like a parrot, repeating a lot of what he was told but what else could he do? What he was hearing…no, he didn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. "I have until sunrise Sensei. This thing likes to play games and…"

"And why do you think I came to find you?!" came the sharp, cutting accusation. Splinter thrust his cane up against the nearby wall and dirt and grime spilled into the tunnel, illuminating a floor thick with that black muck that still coated a lot of Mikey's form. "I arrived too late for them because you did not arrive in time to save them. You have failed your brothers!"

Now, Mikey saw. Light…sunlight.

No…no, his time was off but it wasn't that much off. It wasn't sunrise yet. It couldn't be. "No…no, I still have time…"

"Look, Michelangelo!" Splinter cried again, tears finally breaking loose and staining his fur. "The sun is up and you have not yet found them. I have seen them. What's left of them. All we can do now is to make sure I do not lose all my sons."

"No." Mikey shook his head. "No, it can't…"

"Listen to your Sensei, Michelangelo!" The tone was cold and biting. "If you had made use of your skills, your training before this night then your brothers would not have perished. If your brothers had not felt such a desire to protect you…if you had not needed such protection, they would not have died!" The rat crumbled a little "And I will not lose another child. Better an unwanted child than no child at all."

Limbs weak, heart raw, Michelangelo locked eyes with the rat "Then, I want to see them."

"There is nothing left of them to see, my son!" he sobbed. "There is no body for us to cremate or bury. What you want is what caused this! What you want is what kept you from your true potential and what kept you from—"

"No!" His response was sudden and fierce. A warmth burned in his chest, through his whole body and he knew it wasn't from the fever. "No, they aren't dead and I won't believe it until I see it with my own eyes, Sensei!" He eyed the rat, tracked him with his eyes. "And I…if they are dead…it's not my fault."

"You failed in—"

"No." Michelangelo straightened, as much as he could with the sickness and he eyed the figure in front of him. "No. My father is a lot of things. He's stern; he calls me out on my mistakes." He felt a deep rage take his heart, at the realization. "But my father would NEVER tell me the things you are. My father wants ALL of us. You aren't my father!"

He struck, suddenly and harsh. His moves were sloppy and unrefined, even more than normal. However, they met and struck hard. One thrust of the hand, one kick, one jump, one punch. Over and over, his katas formed into a solid flow of straight, endless attack.

His opponent met with each one and a sudden kick sent him into the wall, hard. Mikey felt one rib give way to the abuse and this form of his father wasted no time in slamming a sharp kick right on that sensitive spot. Pain cut through his eyesight, blinding him and he met the black tar substance face first. A bit of it got into his mouth and he nearly hurled again. This time though, a sharp tendril came alive. Like a snake, wrapping around his neck, around his limbs, around his back, yanking him deep. That horrible blackness pushed into his nostrils, into his mouth, pushing down his throat, choking him. It tasted like rotten, like flesh. Yes, that's what it was. It tasted like flesh. Rotten, decayed flesh. Disgusting lost life that tried to choke his away.

He was close.

Managing to maneuver a wrist into his belt, he fumbled and found his lighter. A flick of the finger and the brilliant orange flame sprung to life and he swung it. The blackness retreated like it never was, almost with screech of pain. He hacked, pools of the blackness flying out of his mouth, splattering on the floor. He moaned, threw up and amid the faint light, he could see. The walls…they were soft because what they were made of was soft. Flesh. Faces of old decaying flesh, peeling off, revealing more faces beyond that. Face after face.

And this thing meant to add green skin to this sick wall.

Anger, raw, unbridled anger took his heart and he spat at the entity that had dared to take his father's form:

"WHERE. ARE. MY. BROTHERS?!"

It was rare for so much passion to be in Michelangelo's voice. He felt energy, energy that was non-organic in nature thunder out in that tone. Maybe it was spiritual or maybe he was delusional with fever. He didn't know. What he did know what that the spectral of Splinter turned black as shadow and shattered like glass. The sunlight faded in intensity, becoming a light paleness of moonlight. Stumbling to his feet, he ran. He ran for where he saw that open space and with a speed that only he was known for, he erupted into a large chamber. Yelling. So much yelling. Screams, pleads. Like the portraits but a thousand times worse.

And all around him. Draped everywhere like sick decorations—skeletons. Stripped skeletons, making up the very walls and ceiling and…

In the direct center, sat an old tree. Ancient looking, with slick, skinny branches that resembled fingers. Tall, probably as tall as their Lair was, with vines that crept over the long dead bones like snakes. Surrounded by a small pond that burned so red it hurt the eyes and smelled of blood. The tree's vines and roots seeped into the water, like it was drinking it up. That wasn't his concern though. His was higher. Stretched far up in the branches, with vines and thorns literally sunk into flesh, were his brothers. Limp, hanging like dead leaves.

"Donnie! Leo! Raph!"

His heart sunk when they didn't answer him right away. He felt fear, ice cold; take the very breath from his lungs. _No, I'm not too late. I'm not. Wake up, you jerks!_

When they stirred, if only a bit, he wasted no time and leapt forward, clutching at the living branches that tried to twist and turn and make him lose his grip. He jumped, avoided them, sprung forward and then yelped in pain when one thorned branch clutched his ankle, tight, digging in its claws. Screeching out in pain, his cry seemed to be what did it. Figures that it would be his girly scream to wake his siblings up out of whatever weird trance they were in. _Never underestimate little brother powers!_

He heard Raph's cursing voice first. "Get your fucking tentacles off my brother, you sick fuck!"

 _Good ol' Raph! I missed you! Knew you couldn't be dead, knew it!_ Tears bubbled up and he reached up, crying out loud when an olive colored hand grasped his.

Donnie, despite being pale and obviously distressed (because, duh, who wouldn't be) pulled him up, forcing the wrapped branch to give way with a half kick with one slightly loose leg. "Mikey, you're burning up!" He scolded "You shouldn't have come!"

_Seriously, Donnie? You're trapped in some demon tree that has eaten the skin off humans for God-knows-how-long and you're yelling at me for not being in bed? God, I love you, Donnie!_

"Donnie! Leo! Raph!" He did cry that time, tears running down his face as he got a grip and yanked on the bonds around Donnie's arm. Nothing. They didn't so much as move.

"Mikey, look out!"

Leo's voice came out of nowhere and he spun slightly, nearly losing his grip if not for his eldest sibling's sudden grasp on his upper arm. He heard Leo wince and he suspected he must have looked bad. No time to worry about that. He couldn't look at Leo right now. He couldn't. If he looked at him that way, they couldn't risk anything slowing them down right now, not even familial reunions.

Looking down, Mikey couldn't help a yelp.

Rushing up the trunk, black all over him, white bones shimmering, was the Dark Man. All mist and shadow and white flashing bones. Oh, those black sockets hummed with murderous intent. "Can't you guys get loose?" he asked and then pardoned "Sorry, Leo, mind?" He swung down, grasping hold of his brother's left foot. Using it like a rope of sorts, he swung about, finally landing a good spot where he could see down. That thing was coming right at him. The moving branches and vines and his brothers not free at all and…

The center.

The center of the tree right below him. As only Mikey could do, his mind began to fire details at rapid pace—the journals, the ghoul, the paintings…the…the candle. The candle. Fire. How it ran from fire.

Jumping inward, into the tentacles earned him "Have you fucking lost your mind?!" from Raphael but he was too busy digging out that candle and lighting that wick. Like before, it hummed with a brilliant blue light and the whole tree convulsed. Screeched. Literally screamed. The bonds around his brothers went slack and that was all you needed for a ninja to take advantage of it. Of course. The damn candle was the one thing everything in this house ran from. It was the fire that the ghoul tried to put out, that the Dark Man tried to put out. That room with the smoke…that must have been the man that had tried to set the place on fire. His name in the journal had been the only name he had not seen written SOMEWHERE in here. Something about that candle being from their ancestors and…

That had made that dark muck on his neck burn away like it was made of oil.

"Course. It's always the first item you find, duh." Tearing himself closer, he could see deep in the pit of the tree a single sapling. What kind he didn't know but it was blood red in color. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he swung a bit deeper, taking a few thorns deep in the shoulder. Blood ran down his arm and the tendrils swept out, drinking it up from his body like it was rainwater. He swatted the thorns away and kept climbing. Closer. He didn't know closer to what but judging how everything around him was freaking out, that was a great sign.

"Get away!" That darkness in that voice paused Mikey only a moment and he whirled, seeing that boned spirit springing for him, claws out, broken teeth bared.

Mikey threw the candle into the hollow space with all his strength, snarling "Burn in hell!"

It hit the bottom and it was like he had dropped it into a vat of gasoline. Fire raced up the tree like lightning. The vines and thorns instantly retracted into themselves and they screamed. Oh, they screamed loud. Piercing, soul wrenching. It made Mikey clutch his ears and in that movement, he lost his grip and the Dark Man reached him.

They both plunged and hit the red lake hard. It knocked the breath out of Michelangelo's lungs and he could hear his brothers scrambling down to reach him. God, this red…it was all blood. Thick, sticky blood that made a horrible suffocating feeling.

But worse…that man…right up close to him. Right up to the face.

 _You think this beats me?_ Oh, that voice…dark and cold and even now, it made Mikey sweat and tremble. _So long as I escape fire, I survive! You think you're the first one to try and burn me? I have lived far too long to be beat so easily, child!_

Mikey didn't respond. He couldn't. They were sinking, though if they were sinking or if they were being pulled he didn't know. All he knew was that suddenly his shell was pressed hard against a floor made of bones and flesh. _They've tried fire, they tried blades, they tried magic. Those damn protection totems…too weak to hold me. I've tasted your blood, turtle. I've tasted your brothers! I'll be coming for you! I'll be coming for them!_

With an animalistic growl and far more strength than his illness should have allowed, Mikey shoved back, sending both of them to the surface again and against the tree that was raining down ash and fire. His eyes narrowed and his heart only fell on one thing. He'd gotten his brothers back. He could hear them, rushing to them. He could feel the utter depression and misery in this place. This…thing…was going to come after his family? Oh, no. Fire would kill him and if he had to stay here and hold him here until the fire took him from this world then he would! It could take him too for all he cared but this thing was not coming after his family!

_He states that protection is only given 'personally.'_

The statement from that journal lit up in his mind. Personally…he had heard of an idea like that before. Leo and Master Splinter would babble about it sometimes. The energy of a spiritual item was tied to the personal significance and history of it. That was why family heirlooms held such power. Michelangelo locked eyes with this thing, for once not feeling that dark coldness from those empty sockets. "You're not taking my family. You're not touching them, again. You're not touching anyone again!"

Reaching into his belt which was covered in blood and black sludge, he pulled out the sai that had saved him so many times, not just this time but several times. The sai that had blocked a sword, the sai that had caught a wall and given him a handhold. The sai whose wielder had literally stood between him and death.

The bands that held it together…from the bo his brother wielded. The bo that had struck down an enemy before they had struck. The bo that had sent him flying to safety with a jump. The bo whose wielder had faced down an army with his bare hands.

The sharpness of the blade, given by the sword wielder. The one who had literally crossed space if it was to protect his family. The one that had leapt down and defended him against a dinosaur. The one that had refused to lose faith in him, even when he had lost faith in himself.

As for himself…he had risked everything for his brothers, time and time again. Against Shredder, against Kluh, against Cyber Shredder, and now…here…he had ventured into a cursed house, sick as a dog, to save them. Frightened, yes, scared, yes, unsure yes but more readily petrified of losing them. Nothing was worse than that and he would risk anything to prevent that. He would continue to do that as they would continue to risk everything for him. Nothing had ever stopped them from protecting him and nothing would **ever** stop him from protecting them.

Snarling (and channeling a little inner-Raph), Mikey tore his bandana off his head and wrapped it around the metal of the sai. "This is MY protection totem, bastard!"

Maybe it was his imagination but he swore he saw a golden light about it when he plunged it into the chest of the dark entity. The thing screeched out in pain, throwing back a bony head as the black robe disintegrated away. Mikey tumbled backward, into the red blood lake, trembling. He was faintly aware of someone landing next to him and screeching at him for his attention. When he didn't give it, when he didn't respond, his investigator scooped him up like a sack of potatoes and flung him over their shoulder and then they were moving.

He felt all the exhaustion tear through his muscles and he could barely manage "Tunnel…way out…" His eyes did not leave the chamber that had turned into a horrible inferno and smoke that choked everything and everything. His ears no longer heard screaming, not like before. This sounded more like…relief? Sighs that one gave out when a task had finally been completed. A feeling of darkness that had settled over the place since he'd entered seemed to life. The dark corridor, so needlessly dark before suddenly was full of moonlight and starlight.

The Dark Man was not following.

All the same, Mikey didn't speak. He didn't speak even when Raph passed him up through the small opening to the open air and Leo took over playing mule. He could hear Donnie calling to him but he didn't have the strength to answer, nor the will. He was exhausted. His brothers were safe. He tightened a weak grip on Leo's shoulder and laid his scalding hot head on his shoulder and sobbed. They were safe. They were out. The cold New York air and the scent of pollution and sounds of dozens of cars had never felt so good…

"…ikey?"

Blinking, coldness on his face, finally broke his spell. He blinked a second time and his vision cleared on Donnie's worried face. The cold thing was one of the wet cloths from the Battle Shell. They were perched in front of it and the blazing fire behind them continued to rage. No one was coming to put it out. It was like the entire city knew it was best to leave it be.

"Mikey…"

Donnie's voice again. Shifting his eyes up to meet his brother's, he felt the olive turtle lay a hand on his head "God, you feel like fire."

"Well, just ran out of one…" he began then swiftly decided it was a bad idea as his adrenaline crash decided to hit then and he rolled to his side and threw up, rather violent, spilling up more of that black stuff than he was happy with. He felt a hand on his shell and then Leo's gentle baritone.

"His fever is worse Donnie."

"I know, we need to get home, get him cleaned up, get some medicine in, lower this fever…" Donnie began to fire off instructions as only a family medic could do but Mikey stood, rapidly and quickly regretted it when he stumbled and would have pitched face first if Raph hadn't caught him, not making any mention of the blood and black tar all over him.

"Whoa, where the shell do you think you're going?" His harsh tone only hid his concern from people that didn't know him and Mikey knew him well.

"I…Donnie, I was fighting just fine and…" He began and his brother interrupted him.

"Actually, your moves were sloppy as hell. I'm surprised you were even able to manage that." He shook his head, "Adrenaline really is a marvelous thing." The genius turtle narrowed his eyes "But you are feeling the crash in a major way, Mikey."

Michelangelo shuddered and he had to admit, his brother was right. The shaking, the nausea, the headache, the dizziness. It was like it had been put on hold and now it was slamming back into reality full force. He couldn't even keep his muscles still. He quivered against Raphael and the taller turtle eyed him with a scoff "Okay, we're getting you home, in a bath and in bed before you decide to throw up on me…"

"No," Mikey protested and pointed. "I have to see."

Leo stepped over, leaning over and stroked his brother's head "Mikey, no. Your fever is way too high. Dangerously high. There'll be time for this later…"

"Heck, I wanna know what that son-of-a-bitch was" Raph snorted. "He sure has a lotta nerve."

"And a disturbed imagination" Donnie felt inclined to add. He hated things he couldn't explain and this fell into that category. He remembered they had chased someone onto the property and then…well, then he remembered hearing Mikey, seeing him briefly, somehow and then nothing until he'd woken up in that….well, whatever it was that he had woken up in. The smell alone would haunt him the rest of his life and seeing Mikey…so battered, hurt, coated in blood and fever so high it blazed out of his eyes...yep, his nerves were shot for the next month.

And NOW his youngest brother was wanting to go BACK? Was he mental?

Mikey was insistent. "No. No. I have to know. I have to know he's gone, Leo. He made me threat, I have to know, please!" He wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't know. He needed to know. He HAD to know. His bright, tear filled eyes locked with his brother's and he nearly sobbed "Leonardo, please!"

Maybe it was the eyes, because despite what he tried to say, everyone knew Leonardo was a sucker for Michelangelo's look. Or maybe it was the very real threat they had just escaped from. Heck, maybe it was some deep desire on Leo's part to know his family was safe. In any event, the leader of the turtles eyed his sickly brother a moment more before making a choice. Straightening up, Leo bit his lip but then eyed Raphael "Raph?"

The bulkiest turtle groaned, griped but then hoisted Michelangelo up onto his shell as Leo and Donnie flanked him. As they started a long way back towards where they'd come out of, he threatened "Mikey, throw up on me and I swear I'm dropping you." Despite the poison of the words, there was no sharpness or danger to the tone. Mikey closed his eyes in response. It would keep the dizziness down and he would be less inclined to feel the need to empty his stomach, though he was fairly certain that there couldn't be much left in it! Besides, Raph's neck was deliciously cool against his skin.

They waited a while. The flames were intense, burning hot and for a time, they couldn't even get close to it. Donnie didn't like having Mikey out like this. He was sick. He'd been sick before but now after fighting for hours and romping through God knew what, he was ten times worse. He had every intention of pumping some many medications into his brother once they got him home and despite how they usually avoided it, Donnie was full prepared to bathe his brother himself if it would bring that fever down.

So, standing out here, in the cold night air, watching a wicked house turn to ash, smoke and dust was not on his medical 'okay' list.

Leonardo eyed Mikey with a mixture of amazement and pity. His brother was a lot stronger than he thought he was and he had more than proved it tonight. Everyone knew that Mikey had a deep fear of all things "creepy" despite his love of horror classics. He had come for them though. Leo had not doubted he would, though he had hoped he would not have had to. That fever scared him. They rarely got sick and even rarer did they get seriously and Mikey was on the edge. He had all kinds of injuries and Leo was fairly certain that they were not seeing the bulk of them, given the substances that were painted all over his sibling. He reached over and ran a hand over his brother's boiling skin.

Raph shifted Mikey lightly on his back. If he didn't have his brother to worry about, he would have gladly welcomed a chance to torment whomever this thing was. He didn't take lightly to being helpless and he took even less well to people threatening his family. Poor Mikey…the kid looked utterly miserable. He couldn't imagine fighting in that kind of condition. Heck, at home the last few days, Mikey hadn't even really gotten out of bed unless he had to. The runt really surprised him sometimes. Maybe he shouldn't have though. The ferocity he heard in Mikey's spirit tonight…he'd have beamed with pride if he hadn't thought someone would notice.

"There." Mikey lifted a hand and pointed.

Sure enough, they saw a small clearing and what remained of a large tree. All ash and dust. Literally crumbling in the night. The way down into the pit was a bit tricky but it was hardly a trial for four ninjas, even if one ninja was severely depleted of energy and currently being carried. They approached, finding the large pool now coated in the wood, dust and ash from the house. The place was still burning but the fire seemed to have spread and contained itself enough that they didn't need to worry about getting trapped by it. The filled in blood pool was muddy and slick but it handled their weight well enough without them sinking more than an inch or two and as they approached, they saw what Mikey wanted.

Pinned to the dying plant was the bony corpse of man. No clothes, just bones and ash and dust. His eyes were empty sockets and his bones looked worn and old, as if he had been dead for quite some time. Mikey locked eyes with those empty orbs.

Nothing. No light, no feeling, no spiritual essence. Nothing. It was gone. Shuddering, nearly sobbing in relief, face buried, he remarked "He's gone. He's gone."

Sticking out from the center of his chest, shimmering with an almost light of its own, was one of Raph's sais. The brawler turtle approached, grasped the handle and yanked, hard.

The corpse turned to dust.


End file.
